


The Boy on the Train

by riyku



Series: Skam Sunday [28]
Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 07:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14492172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riyku/pseuds/riyku
Summary: Even is making up stories again.





	The Boy on the Train

**Author's Note:**

> hello. somewhere along the time-space continuum, it's still sunday, right?
> 
> just a little thing, written on the train ride home from visiting my dearest tebtosca, who probably prompted this to me to distract me. AU. vaguely weird. just roll with me on this one.
> 
> hope you enjoy!

It’s Tuesday, and it’s morning, and Even is making up stories again. 

The day is cold. Dull and rainy and there are streaks on the windows of the train that make Even think of high-speed tear tracks on a face.

The thought is grim. More grim than Even means to be. He gives up his seat to a woman with frost-flushed cheeks and a dripping umbrella.

She's grandmother age and the wedding band on her finger has worn down thin. It keeps slipping, catching on a swollen knuckle. There's something timeless about the laugh lines branching from the corners of her eyes and a warmth in the grateful nod she gives him and Even goes for something a little sci-fi in the story he creates. Imagines her as a time-traveler, thinks about the things she must have seen on the way to the next stop.

An infant is in a stroller pulled only somewhat out of the center aisle. The mother is absently rocking the stroller while she talks on the phone. Let's stick with sci-fi. The kid will grow up crookedly pyrokinetic but only be able to do things like light cigarettes and firecrackers. He'll choose the name Party Trick and will eventually figure out he is destined to fight crime.

A boy is standing at the other end of the car, offering his seat up to a pretty girl with dark hair and candy-apple red lipstick. The boy is sixteen-maybe-nineteen and has his hood pulled up over his snapback and his headphones plugged in. He has a ski-slope nose and is wearing enough layers that Even can't get a reliable read on the size of him, and the stories have gone quiet.

The dip in his upper lip injects a sort of anarchy into Even's heart. 

The train hits a rough stretch of track and the rattling makes Even stumble, look down to be sure his feet are finding a good place to land. He glances up again to find the boy staring at him, eyes narrowed and thoughtful. The boy looks away before Even has a chance to smile at him.

On the other side of the window, the day suddenly seems a lot less dull. Everything is a bit brighter.

\---

It's a week later, and Even's in the same car on the train. Third from the end. The door slides open and the boy is back. He's distracted, paying attention to his phone, mouth set in a small, worried pout.

Storytime. Even skips out on anything fantastical. Sticks with realism. He's dressed nicely, but not too nicely. Dark jeans that fit, a decent pair of shoes, a button-down that doesn't have any wrinkles. He's paid attention to his hair. He takes a phone call, talks for a minute and by the end of it the worry has melted into a smirk and a roll of his eyes.

It's a date, Even imagines, a blind date, and the boy spent the last hour making himself presentable. Nervousness pinging around in his stomach although it's no big deal. Just late morning coffee and low expectations. The phone call was from a friend on a reconnaissance mission: Yeah, the cafe is packed, nice and busy. And I'll be here if things go crappy, or worse, if things get awkward. Just text me under the table and I'll call you. You got this.

The boy is meeting another boy, Even decides, and he's never done something like this before. It _is_ awkward at first, the small-talk hasn't the weather been lovely part of the conversation while the caffeine is kicking in, and his date seems distracted by the way he's fixing his coffee and nervously folding up the empty sugar packets, but then the boy says something that makes his date laugh. The boy really likes the sound of it, starts to figure out how easy it is to make that happen and things smooth out. 

Their time ends with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and a promise to meet again in three days. And maybe Even's created a guy who's tall, a little older, artsy but not in an elitist way, with a deep voice and skinny fingers he uses to trail across the boy's hand when they part, walking backward because he's not yet ready to look away. 

The train stops and the boy takes a deep breath, a tic in his jaw when he sets it. He begins to step off and catches Even's stare. There's a shot of recognition, a tiny smile Even sees in profile at first, then full-on as the boy pauses on the platform and peers at Even through the window.

The fairytale has slid into omniscient narration. It could be slipping into first person point-of-view, which isn't something Even often does. Sometimes, though, it's the only way to tell a story.

\---

The train is crowded today. Options on top of options except Even is interested in only one of them. The one who is dashing across the platform, past door after open door to dive into the third car from the back.

He's messy today. Obviously rushed. Puffy-eyed and corkscrewed hair and the strap of his backpack is tangled up in his jacket and t-shirt, pulling it sideways on his shoulder. Skinny-boy collarbone and spotty skin bare for the whole world to see. Even wants to fix it for him, introduce some reason into the cowlick at the crown of his head, touch his cheek and check to see whether it's still pillow-warm.

Fast forward, and there's a chance that realism is giving it up to something more postmodern. Forget about the chronology, the long ago in a kingdom far, far away. This story belongs to Even, there are no rules that he has to go by. The boy on the train is still the star, and Even is the first-person narrator, unreliable to the core. That kinda thing hardly matters. He's making this stuff up for an audience of one.

There's been a date, and another date, and a few more besides. And this is the morning after the boy spent the night with another boy. A morning made of lazy kisses and fingers tied up in cowlicks and a last-minute, reckless dash to start the day, the boy pulling on the clothes he wore the night before over a pair of borrowed boxers. One more kiss while the boy is stepping into his shoes in the entryway. A paper bag with some sorta baked good bought from the cafe where they first met, since this version of Even is every bit as sentimental as the version making all this stuff up. 

Another kiss after Even rushed down the stairs after the boy because he forgot to thank him for spending the night. He forgot to tell him he is beautiful, and sweet, and that one gets him a soft laugh, a warm brush of air over Even's mouth as he kisses him one more time before watching him go.

It's the worst part of Even's day, and the best, knowing that the boy will come back. There might be a little character bleed. There might be a lot.

The boy has rearranged his backpack, fixed his jacket. Someone has lost control of their child, who is jumping up on the center pole repeatedly and spinning around it. Even and the boy share a look, an eyebrow lift in the universal language of exasperation. They share a silent laugh and it feels like hello.

\---

A week has gone by, and Even hasn't seen him, and when he does it's unexpected.

Shopping bags hooked around the boy's fingers, dirty sneakers and mud splattered on the cuffs of his jeans. He sees Even, and it might be wishful thinking, more omniscient narration, but it looks like some of the tension drains from his expression. His shoulders drop. At ease.

It gives Even quite a bit to work with. Another fast forward. Nevermind the timeline. The boy is still the hero of this story, and Even's his faithful companion. He's on his way to Even's apartment, has warned Even's roommates to stay away. Even, who's always worn his heart on the outside of his chest gave him a key the second time he slept over.

The boy has the makings for dinner and one of his mother's recipes. Something he runs a low chance of fucking up. He's running late like he always is. Nothing but the best intentions propped up by a screwy sense of timing.

They know everything about each other by now, the important stuff and the stuff that seems unimportant but still is, like the noises the boy makes in his sleep and how Even takes his tea, and the pills that Even needs to take to stay on the straight and narrow, and how the boy didn't trust his own heart before they met. How he kept it tucked away and hidden, terrified that someone would discover the shape of it.

Another small skip in the timeline and dinner has been decimated, and Even is full and happy and so in love, and the boy, jittery and hopeful, slides his phone across the table, almost upends the half-finished bottle of wine and shows Even a search history for apartments. Small places. Modest, but big enough for the two of them.

At some point, between roasted potatoes and a second glass of wine, Even has missed his stop. It's alright. In his head, he's sliding into the boy's lap, resting his arms around his neck. He can always circle back.

\---

It's a Tuesday again, and it's still cold, and the boy steps into the car and smiles at him, wide open and big, takes a step toward Even and the empty seat beside him, then pulls up short when someone else takes it.

He looks the same way he did the first day Even saw him. Jacket, sweatshirt, red snapback and dirty sneakers. His hair is curled around his ears and he makes up for his fading smile by licking his lips.

Even's been inserting himself into a make-believe version of the boy's life. They have an apartment and inside jokes, and Even's been working a job that he doesn't like too well for a boy he loves more than anything. They have a history and an in-between, share a bed and clothes and friends. Even has it all outlined, safe and sound inside of a mental lockbox. 

The train is slowing, pulling into the next stop. There's a coffee shop near here. At this time of day, it won't be too busy. Just busy enough.

Even gets to his feet, and the boy is watching him as he steps toward him. The door opens and Even puts one foot on the platform, the other one still on the train. He holds his hand out.

"Here's the story," Even says.

\---

Isak. The boy's name is Isak.

 

\--end

thank you for reading!


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